


Feel the Love

by DaisyChainz



Series: Good Omens Ficlets [6]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-07-31 13:01:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20115502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyChainz/pseuds/DaisyChainz
Summary: Aziraphale can sense when a place is deeply loved; when the love is soaked deep into the bones of a building, or other objects. So it seems odd when he comes home to the bookshop and finds Crowley, and a deep sense of love within his shop he's never noticed before.





	Feel the Love

Aziraphale's favorite French restaurant, outside of France, was about six blocks from Fell's. They made crepes that were Almost as good as the ones he got in Paris. Not quite, but satisfyingly close. 

Another reason he enjoyed going to the restaurant was the feelings it radiated. Love. Love was infused into every board, every nail, every cracked tile. The owner was never getting rich, but they loved their little venture with every fiber of their being. 

Aziraphale found being surrounded by all that deep love to be incredibly relaxing. It was like Heaven when it was still new. Before anyone became jaded or frustrated and they were all still too innocent to see Heaven, and each other, as anything other than pure and lovely. 

He smiled when the owner came to check on him, complimented the food and the atmosphere. Of course he had to severely understate how wonderful it was, but it was still enough to please the owner. He smiled and looked around his place, full of affection as he saw only the beauty. "I'm so pleased your happy." He finally looked back at Aziraphale. "This place was a dream come true for me."

Aziraphale smiled kindly and laid a special blessing on the place and it's owner. 

He took his time walking back. He enjoyed the feel of the sun on his face, a slight breeze trying to rustle his starched collar. They had come so close to losing it all. He wanted to appreciate every molecule of it.

The sounds of children playing caused him to stop and look over into a playground. He admired the boundless energy as the children ran in circles, chased each other, climbed up and slid down over and over again. 

He breathed in the love emanating from the playground. So many children spent so much time there, having so much fun, making friends, growing . . . Aziraphale glanced around at the adults sitting on nearby benches. Yes, the children loved the park. But it was the adults that laid down the strongest love. A sentimental love of having been to the same park as children themselves, strengthened by being able to watch their own children grow to love it as they had. 

With a final smile and deep breath, Aziraphale continued on his way home. A few blocks later he cut across the street and passed through a tiny square with its own fountain. A small one, not much more than a wishing well, really. 

Some children, older than the ones at the park, were throwing coins in and laughing as they watched them wobble their way to the tiled bottom. 

As he walked through the square it was as if he were passing through a haze of emotions. Children loved coming to the square, to be able to feed the fountain. Young lovers came to watch the water fall, of have it fill their ears as they gazed into each other's eyes. More than one proposal had been made. Aziraphale could still feel the last one, it hadn't been long since. 

The buzz faded as he continued on, but his good mood continued. For all the hate and discord (and war, famine and pollution) there was in the world, there would always be this lingering love left behind, to persevere. 

Humming to himself, Aziraphale passed an old man sitting on a bench, next to a red door. Aziraphale began to walk on by, but something made him pause. He stopped and closed his eyes, let the love of the building reach out to him. The old man lived in one of the apartments. He and his wife had moved there when they were first married. They had raised their children there. They were spending their last years there. Together. 

Aziraphale opened his eyes and half-turned to the old man. The old man only smiled and nodded to him. For a brief moment Aziraphale wondered how much those rheumy old eyes could see . . . But no. They couldn't see Him. Not his true self. Aziraphale smiled and nodded back, continuing on his way. 

Sometimes it was difficult for him to separate the love people had for places, and the people themselves. He shook his head to clear it a little. 

He stopped on the corner, watching the traffic and waiting for a chance to cross--he was almost back to the bookshop now. 

A car pulled up to the light. Aziraphale blinked as he took it in. He had no idea what kind it was, he knew nothing about cars. But it was very old, and very beaten up. The engine spluttered and sounded like it would cut off at any moment. A black cloud formed at the back. 

But Aziraphale stared because of the absolute Love that radiated from it.

The man driving had saved his money for a long time to buy it. It was his first, and only, car. It took him to school, to work, on holiday. He was incredibly proud of it. It took him on his first date, they fell in love in it, he proposed in it, had their first . . . Oh my. Aziraphale blushed and focused on waiting for the light to change. 

Finally Aziraphale reached his street, the bookshop in view. He walked towards it eagerly, ready to be back amongst his books, perhaps with an after-dinner cocoa . . . As he approached, that's when it hit him. There was a deep, abiding love of this place. His place. 

Aziraphale stopped, puzzled. Of course he loved his shop. The shop and all the wonderful objects inside. But this was strong. Surely he would have noticed this before, and surely he had. Why was it so striking to him at that moment? 

Aziraphale looked around, thinking of all the loved places and things he had absorbed since he went to supper. They must have attuned him, made him hypersensitive. He nodded to himself and reached for the door. Surely that was it.

He walked inside and pulled the door shut firmly behind him. He went through his usual rituals, locking the door hanging his coat up, smoothing his shirtsleeves. Still, the feeling clung to him, refusing to be ignored. 

He did find himself distracted, however, as he walked further in and found a familiar figure draped over one of his chairs. 

"Crowley! Whatever are you doing here?"

Crowley turned his head towards him as though he hadn't heard the door open and shut, Aziraphale making his way inside. 

"Oh, hello Angel." He blinked at him lazily from behind his usual sunglasses. A slight smile played on the corners of his mouth. 

"Crowley," tsked the Angel. "I thought we were past not showing me your eyes."

The Demon half-waved towards the West end of the ship. "You have an awful lot of windows. That sun is bright!"

Aziraphale gave him an indulgent smile, "you lived in Hell?" 

Crowley waved him off. "Contrary to popular belief, Hell is Dark." He thought for a moment, then gave Aziraphale a pointed glance over the top of his shades, one raised brow. "But then, you would know that. Wouldn't you, Angel."

They shared a moment of exhilaration tinged with fear. Fear that their plan might not have worked, fear that they would have lost everything. Even after they had saved everything. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat and changed the subject. "Do you feel anything? Anything unusual?"

Crowley shifted his legs and burrowed deeper into the chair. "Unusual, how?"

Suddenly feeling flustered, Aziraphale had difficulty forming a coherent thought. "I just, it seems . . ."

"Well, c'mon Angel. Spit it out!"

"Don't you feel love?"

"Excuse me?"

"The love here! I mean, the shop is always loved, because this is my home, my sanctuary. But this feels, this feels . . . More."

"More love?"

"Yes, yes! This feels like more than just my love for this space. It almost feels like," he had to pause because it made no sense. It was just him in the shop. "Like someone else's."

Crowley jumped up at that, surprising Aziraphale right out of his thoughts. "What exactly are you implying, Angel? That I could be contaminating your shop? That I'm, somehow, attached to your space? That's the most absurd thing I think you've ever said, and that's saying a lot. You've said many, many absurd things." He threw his hands in the air, pacing closer to the door. "In fact, I'm insulted that you would ever think . . . Say that I love something." Aziraphale blinked cross-eyed at the finger suddenly in his face. "You had better not go spreading that around. I'll deny it to the Hev . . . To Hel . . . I'll deny it!"

He snapped his fingers dramatically and both front doors blew wide open. Then he was storming out, leaving them both wide open in his wake. 

Aziraphale had no idea what had just happened. Had he implied that Crowley loved his bookshop? That certainly seemed to be what Crowley believed. 

Aziraphale was unable to be unhappy for long, however. It seemed that the feelings of love simply tightened around him, swirling and promising his cranky friend would be back once he calmed down. 

Aziraphale found himself at the Shakespeare shelf, searching for the volume which held the quote about protesting too much.


End file.
